6 November 05
A full day of lab work completed, the foreigner walked out of the lab house, closing and locking the iron gate behind him. Shrugging his shoulders to work out the kinks, he started walking the two blocks of dirt road to the market. A good day, he thought, and I spent a little longer at the analysis than usual . Freed from the day's responsibilities, he began his mental checklist - only five days before his girlfriend arrived. He rounded the corner, having just completed his shopping list, when the red blur of one of the town's six hundred motorized tricycle rickshaws drove past. He lifted his hand.
The tuk-tuk swerved off the road, coming to a stop next to him. He greeted the driver, and started to climb in, just as he had done a thousand times before, but pulled back when he saw another figure in the shadowy passenger's bench.
The driver looked up at him. "Look, señor, I have a fare already on board, but if you are not in a hurry, I can drop him off quickly, and then take you home."
"Sure." He climbed in the cramped rickshaw, shifting his bulk into the least uncomfortable of available positions. If only this guy would move over a little he thought. But the other passenger had gotten there first, and had the right to put his hand wherever he wanted, even if the arm behind the seat made things a little more uncomfortable.
A few turns of the tuk-tuk later, he leaned forward and asked "Excuse me, sir. How far is this next stop?"
The driver just looked ahead, not turning, not answering.
Sensing something wrong, he turned to the other passenger, who was still crowding the space with his arm behind the seat. Visible only in profile, the first passenger stared forward, also not responding.
Then he spoke. "Turn here."
"Try this road."
"Maybe this one."
Three turns later, the tuk-tuk turned down a dark alley. The passenger yelled "Here!"; the taxi stopped abruptly and the gun, previously hidden behind the seat, flashed out. The passenger jumped out of the tuk, brought the gun up in a TV police stance, pointed the gun at the foreigner's chest, and thumbed back the trigger. The foreigner froze, anticipating a demand for money. Then the gunman leaned forward, and pulled the trigger.
The hammer fell. Click.
The details from this point on are rather fuzzy. The sound of the gun could have been a miss, or it might have been a misfire. Either way, the foreigner realized that it was not a typical mugging – the kidnappers were not going to be content with a live victim who could identify them. The gunman looked down at the gun, and reached to re-try the firing mechanism, while the foreigner threw his 245 pounds of bulk through the open window of the tuk, and landed awkwardly on the ground.
The driver stepped out.
"¡NO ME MATAS! DON'T KILL ME! I will give you whatever you want!"
"Give me your dinero!"
The foreigner threw his bag, wallet, and phone at the driver and turned and fled, stopping at the nearest house to get inside, and away from his assailants. After a phone call to report the kidnapping, theft and attempted murder to the lab director, he called a cab and returned to the lab. Only when the iron gates closed behind him again did he allow release of the tension and fear that had all but overcome him.
Matt is fine, if a little shaken. The fact that the other passenger tried to kill him before asking for the money speaks to the fact that they wanted no witnesses to "denounce" them to the police. So it is understandable that he would think that they might try again. Every passing tuk tuk is a threat, and he doesn't know where the real threat lies.
In other exciting news, I received a phone call this week from one of our workers, Benedicto.
"Hey, Crorey. I just wanted to tell you that we are moving, and won't be living in San José any more."
I was surprised – I didn't know that there was a plan to get out of town, and he seemed so well-ensconced in the community. "Why?"
"The killed my uncle. We are leaving tonight, and I wanted you to know. We don't know where we are going, but I'll call you once we get there and let you know."
"Do Matt and the other guys know about this?"
"No. But I thought you could tell him, and explain it to him, since you speak English, and he understands English better than Spanish."
The main thrust of his call was to inform me that he was leaving and hint at the fact that they didn't have money, and so were leaving their things behind.
When I hung up from talking to him, I called Matt (whose phone that had been stolen), and a few phone calls later found out about the attack on Matt. The gist of the Nito story was that about 8 months ago, his uncle got roaring drunk, and beat up a girl (the daughter of one of the guys who worked with us). The girl was pretty seriously injured, went to the hospital, and died. No charges were filed, although everyone knew what had happened. Two weeks ago, Benito's uncle was killed in his bed by unknown assailants.
I am told that eight months is a rapid turnaround for a revenge killing.
The family decided to leave, and they did so without leaving a forwarding address, except to call me and obliquely ask for money. But I was a 10 hour drive away and had no way of sending the money, since I didn't know where to send it. So I am not entirely sure why he called me (instead of, say, Matt or Christina, who live between San José and Jalapa, and could loan them money until they got settled).
He later called to tell me he was in Jalapa (only a nine-hour drive away), and that the family had moved into an rented apartment (turkey clucking in the background) and that eventually they would get a house and send for the stuff, but that they didn't have money to do it. Consensus is that they are plotting a retaliatory strike, but removing themselves from the area for protection. All in all, an odd scenario. And one that seems better suited to a 19th century novel than something being relayed from a cell phone from the Petén.
Needless to say, Kathe and I are not particularly anxious to go to the Petén and do the work that is pending there. The world is just a little bit scarier now.
Before Katrina, the daughter of the federal judge that lives across the street from our house was raped in her front yard. Three blocks from our house, there were a series of a dozen murders over the course of three weeks. The sound of gunfire was pretty common. When Kathe would call, she sounded scared – she couldn't go anywhere at night, she couldn't walk alone, and she couldn't visit our grandkids five blocks away.
I hear the same tone in Matt's voice when I talk to him, and with reason. And as much as I need to do the analysis that is waiting for me in the Petén, I cannot do it while she is here. It is one thing to put my own life in danger (something I am not keen to do), and another entirely to place the life of my wife in the same danger.
So I am continuing the process of analysis here in Antigua, where I am likely to have a pocket picked, but much less likely to be killed. The rest can wait until I return.
A full day of lab work completed, the foreigner walked out of the lab house, closing and locking the iron gate behind him. Shrugging his shoulders to work out the kinks, he started walking the two blocks of dirt road to the market. A good day, he thought, and I spent a little longer at the analysis than usual . Freed from the day's responsibilities, he began his mental checklist - only five days before his girlfriend arrived. He rounded the corner, having just completed his shopping list, when the red blur of one of the town's six hundred motorized tricycle rickshaws drove past. He lifted his hand.
The tuk-tuk swerved off the road, coming to a stop next to him. He greeted the driver, and started to climb in, just as he had done a thousand times before, but pulled back when he saw another figure in the shadowy passenger's bench.
The driver looked up at him. "Look, señor, I have a fare already on board, but if you are not in a hurry, I can drop him off quickly, and then take you home."
"Sure." He climbed in the cramped rickshaw, shifting his bulk into the least uncomfortable of available positions. If only this guy would move over a little he thought. But the other passenger had gotten there first, and had the right to put his hand wherever he wanted, even if the arm behind the seat made things a little more uncomfortable.
A few turns of the tuk-tuk later, he leaned forward and asked "Excuse me, sir. How far is this next stop?"
The driver just looked ahead, not turning, not answering.
Sensing something wrong, he turned to the other passenger, who was still crowding the space with his arm behind the seat. Visible only in profile, the first passenger stared forward, also not responding.
Then he spoke. "Turn here."
"Try this road."
"Maybe this one."
Three turns later, the tuk-tuk turned down a dark alley. The passenger yelled "Here!"; the taxi stopped abruptly and the gun, previously hidden behind the seat, flashed out. The passenger jumped out of the tuk, brought the gun up in a TV police stance, pointed the gun at the foreigner's chest, and thumbed back the trigger. The foreigner froze, anticipating a demand for money. Then the gunman leaned forward, and pulled the trigger.
The hammer fell. Click.
The details from this point on are rather fuzzy. The sound of the gun could have been a miss, or it might have been a misfire. Either way, the foreigner realized that it was not a typical mugging – the kidnappers were not going to be content with a live victim who could identify them. The gunman looked down at the gun, and reached to re-try the firing mechanism, while the foreigner threw his 245 pounds of bulk through the open window of the tuk, and landed awkwardly on the ground.
The driver stepped out.
"¡NO ME MATAS! DON'T KILL ME! I will give you whatever you want!"
"Give me your dinero!"
The foreigner threw his bag, wallet, and phone at the driver and turned and fled, stopping at the nearest house to get inside, and away from his assailants. After a phone call to report the kidnapping, theft and attempted murder to the lab director, he called a cab and returned to the lab. Only when the iron gates closed behind him again did he allow release of the tension and fear that had all but overcome him.
Matt is fine, if a little shaken. The fact that the other passenger tried to kill him before asking for the money speaks to the fact that they wanted no witnesses to "denounce" them to the police. So it is understandable that he would think that they might try again. Every passing tuk tuk is a threat, and he doesn't know where the real threat lies.
In other exciting news, I received a phone call this week from one of our workers, Benedicto.
"Hey, Crorey. I just wanted to tell you that we are moving, and won't be living in San José any more."
I was surprised – I didn't know that there was a plan to get out of town, and he seemed so well-ensconced in the community. "Why?"
"The killed my uncle. We are leaving tonight, and I wanted you to know. We don't know where we are going, but I'll call you once we get there and let you know."
"Do Matt and the other guys know about this?"
"No. But I thought you could tell him, and explain it to him, since you speak English, and he understands English better than Spanish."
The main thrust of his call was to inform me that he was leaving and hint at the fact that they didn't have money, and so were leaving their things behind.
When I hung up from talking to him, I called Matt (whose phone that had been stolen), and a few phone calls later found out about the attack on Matt. The gist of the Nito story was that about 8 months ago, his uncle got roaring drunk, and beat up a girl (the daughter of one of the guys who worked with us). The girl was pretty seriously injured, went to the hospital, and died. No charges were filed, although everyone knew what had happened. Two weeks ago, Benito's uncle was killed in his bed by unknown assailants.
I am told that eight months is a rapid turnaround for a revenge killing.
The family decided to leave, and they did so without leaving a forwarding address, except to call me and obliquely ask for money. But I was a 10 hour drive away and had no way of sending the money, since I didn't know where to send it. So I am not entirely sure why he called me (instead of, say, Matt or Christina, who live between San José and Jalapa, and could loan them money until they got settled).
He later called to tell me he was in Jalapa (only a nine-hour drive away), and that the family had moved into an rented apartment (turkey clucking in the background) and that eventually they would get a house and send for the stuff, but that they didn't have money to do it. Consensus is that they are plotting a retaliatory strike, but removing themselves from the area for protection. All in all, an odd scenario. And one that seems better suited to a 19th century novel than something being relayed from a cell phone from the Petén.
Needless to say, Kathe and I are not particularly anxious to go to the Petén and do the work that is pending there. The world is just a little bit scarier now.
Before Katrina, the daughter of the federal judge that lives across the street from our house was raped in her front yard. Three blocks from our house, there were a series of a dozen murders over the course of three weeks. The sound of gunfire was pretty common. When Kathe would call, she sounded scared – she couldn't go anywhere at night, she couldn't walk alone, and she couldn't visit our grandkids five blocks away.
I hear the same tone in Matt's voice when I talk to him, and with reason. And as much as I need to do the analysis that is waiting for me in the Petén, I cannot do it while she is here. It is one thing to put my own life in danger (something I am not keen to do), and another entirely to place the life of my wife in the same danger.
So I am continuing the process of analysis here in Antigua, where I am likely to have a pocket picked, but much less likely to be killed. The rest can wait until I return.
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